


Parchment

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco does not tell Harry what he is writing and Harry doesn't ask.  He doesn't need to ask.  Some things are better left unsaid, and some secrets are better kept written down on a place where no one would think to look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parchment

Locking eyes with Draco, Harry pushes his denim trousers down over his slim hips. He isn't wearing anything underneath them, and he doesn't bother to hide the satisfied smirk that forms on his face when Draco's eyes widen. Draco's eyes widen and Harry can see him swallow, watching the way his throat constricts and the way he shifts his weight to the balls of his feet just slightly. 

Harry's cock is hard and heavy against his stomach and there is an overwhelming desire to touch himself. He wants the feel of a hand on his cock, the feel of skin on skin and every last nerve standing on edge, but he holds back. Draco has promise and Harry does not want him to think that he is not the one in control. It's more interesting if they think they own you, when in fact it is the other way around.

Loosening the knot in his tie, Draco advances on Harry, crawling on the bed and up his wiry frame. Resting his arse on Harry's thighs, Draco slowly slides the length of the tie off his neck as he rises above Harry. Knowing what is to come, Harry raises a hand willingly, hissing softly through his teeth when the cool slide of silk encompasses his wrist. There is a soft whisper of sound, the sound of fabric slipping around a bed post. Up Harry's other hand goes and there is the same sensation of fabric on skin and it's done. A light tug of the wrists confirms what he already knew -- he is bound to the headboard. Harry smiles.

The warmth of Draco's body leaves his as Draco gets to his feet. He unfastens his shirt one button at a time, revealing the smooth, firm chest that Harry figured he'd have. Draco shrugs slightly, the shirt slipping down his arms to fall to the floor. He pays it no mind, his eyes burning into Harry's as his fingers move over the catch of his trousers, opening the button and lowering the zip. Pushing the trousers and pants down, he strokes himself once and pulls his gaze away from Harry. As he turns toward a night stand, Harry's eyes roam up and down Draco's muscular back. He imagines what it will be like to press himself against it, what it will be like to feel the reverberations of Draco's moans from back to chest.

When Draco comes to the bed again, he brings a quill. It isn't like any other quill Harry has seen before; it is oddly-coloured and patterned and the ink glistening from the tip is shimmery and gray, like smoke caught in a mist. As he nears, Draco's intention becomes more and more clear. Harry tilts his head back, his eyes straining to see his hand. He doesn't have to look; he knows and will always know what is forever etched in his skin. _I must not tell lies_. 

There is a light but firm pressure on the centre his chest. Draco is writing on him. Harry sucks in a breath and waits for the pain to start - perhaps he had misjudged Draco - but it never comes. The pain doesn't come, and it takes stroke after stroke of Draco's calm, even downward-motions of quill and ink on Harry's skin for Harry to realise that the pain will not be coming. When the realisation hits him, he lets out the breath and raises his hips, arching himself up, offering his body as parchment to Draco. 

No words are exchanged. There is no communication save for the slight pressure of the quill here, urging Harry to tilt, or the sharp exhalation of Harry there, telling Draco that he is pressing too hard. 

Draco does not tell Harry what he is writing and Harry doesn't ask. He doesn't need to ask. Some things are better left unsaid, and some secrets are better kept written down on a place where no one would think to look. Whatever secret Draco has, it must be unthinkable. His quill is dipped in ink seemingly every other minute and he moves lower and lower on Harry's form, so low that Harry is sure Draco will have to bare his soul on Harry's cock. The thought that Draco is there, that his quill dripping with ink and secrets is so close to his cock, is intoxicating. Mouthing Draco's name, Harry rolls his hips and lets out a soft moan as the tip of the quill skitters across his hip bone. Draco lets out a grunt and there is a soft wetness swiping at his skin, then Draco's warm breath ghosting over his flesh before the last of the secret is laid out on Harry's body.

As Draco leans over Harry to retrieve the inkwell, Harry can feel Draco's arousal hard against his thigh. His cock twitches in sympathy, but he does not buck or writhe. He can be patient.

Draco sits up on his knees and opens his legs, dipping his fingers into the inkwell and rubbing the glistening ink into his hands and between his fingers. One hand tweaks at his nipples while the other slides down his chest and belly, leaving a silvery trail in its wake. Skirting his hand around his straining cock, he reaches his hand into the hollow of his thighs. Harry can just see Draco's finger moving over his arsehole and then it disappears inside him. Draco lets out a low, keening sound as his hips jerk in time with the rhythm of the movement of his fingers.

Harry holds still as Draco's hands steady him, watching the muscles straining in Draco's back as he lowers himself on Harry's cock.

_Yes_.

Harry is inside Draco and he wants to thrust up, to move, but he doesn't. Draco should lead; Draco thinks he _is_ the lead, and Harry will not contradict him. 

Pulling on the tie, Harry slides down the mattress enough so that Draco's knees can rest comfortably on either side. Draco exhales deeply and leans back; Harry can see the muscles in his thighs tremble. It's fucking _brilliant_.

Then Draco _moves_.

He clenches down on Harry before pulling himself up Harry's length slowly, slower, slowest before _slamming_ down and moaning. The moan tapers off to a whimper when Harry pistons his hips and then Draco moves faster, fucking himself on Harry's cock. Harry can see the sweat pooling in the gorgeous dip between Draco's shoulders and he knows. Harry knows and Draco gasps and there is the sound of skin on skin and friction and fucking and Harry wants to laugh. He wants to laugh and Draco grunts, pushing down against Harry's cock, his balls flush against Draco's arse, and then Draco is coming; Harry can feel the warm wetness splash against his legs as Draco begins to shake.

It isn't his time. Not yet. 

Draco thinks too much, having laid out his secrets on the parchment of Harry's body like he did. He bared his soul and had his fill and likely thinks that he has a connection with Harry now.

If he thinks that, he is wrong.

This was never about Draco or his secrets or a bond.

This was about fucking.

No connections, not for Harry.

Gathering up his strength, Harry pulls his feet up and bucks, sending Draco flying back against his chest as Harry's cock slips out his arse. The sweat-slick skin of Draco's back is pressed against Harry's chest and Harry _laughs_. Harry laughs and writhes underneath Draco, mixing sweat and ink until the words are nothing more than smudges of secrets and shame and sin.

"I won't be your Secret-Keeper," Harry whispers into Draco's ear, wrapping his legs around Draco's waist. "But I will be your top."


End file.
